


The Lady Christabel

by athousandwinds



Category: Cain Saga/Godchild
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That lovely lady Christabel, whom her father loves so well!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady Christabel

"I rather think myself to be beautiful," Cain remarked to his reflection. "At least in this context."

"Yes, sir."

Cain bit down on his bottom lip and watched it flood full and scarlet. "Do feel free to disagree, Riff."

"You look fine, sir."

"'Fine' is utterly inadequate." Cain fingered one of his long, raven-black tresses. They had been advertised as being from the head of a Real Live Woman! as opposed to, perhaps, one of Merryweather's porcelain dolls, or a long-haired Persian cat. The wig was shedding fine strands all over Cain's dress. "Am I not ravishing?"

"Indeed, sir." Riff did seem unusually satisfied when he looked at Cain, as well he might. The tailor who'd designed the dress had had to be paid the earth just to keep him quiet, but Riff had begged and bargained until the total price came to something less than an entire planetarium. "It's time for your paint, sir."

Cain held perfectly still as Riff approached. When he began to smear the paint over Cain's lips, Cain barely breathed; he was imagining the warm wax of a death-mask being moulded over his face. But it was only Riff's palms smoothing over his cheekbones.

When Riff had wiped the powder from his fingers, Cain turned to stare at his own face in the glass once more. His lips were as red as blood, a startlingly violent lash of colour across his dead-white face. The Orient was currently in fashion, especially among men of Crispian Longfinch's stripe and Cain had dressed accordingly. It would never do to look out of place in Longfinch's favourite den.

"A moment, sir." Cain lifted his chin to allow Riff's fingers better access to his throat – or his neckline. He smiled at the ceiling, his red lips curving like a bloody scimitar.

"Riff..."

"Yes, Master Cain?" The fingers left his throat and travelled downwards, straightening the cloth over Cain's thin shoulders.

"Do you think I could seduce you?" Cain asked, his gaze coming down sharply to stare directly into Riff's upturned, inquiring face. Riff's hands paused momentarily in the act of smoothing the crimson silk over Cain's hips before he replied:

"Probably not, sir."

"Why not?" Cain demanded slightly peevishly, twisting his body to get a better look at Riff. "Am I not beautiful?" He permitted petulance to creep into his tone, but his eyes were bright. "Do you not think me perfectly charming?"

Riff glanced up, his features carefully schooled into a butler's expression. "Yes, sir, but it's a cliché."

"I think you're wrong," Cain mused, tapping his fan against his lips. "I think it's the butler and the housekeeper who are the cliché."

"We don't have a housekeeper, Master Cain." Riff stepped back to consider his handiwork. "Are you sure that your garters are tied properly?"

"Look and see." Cain re-seated himself daintily on his bed and extended a well-shaped leg. "Besides, if they aren't, I'll just ask sweet Crispian to tie it up for me." He smirked and flicked his fan open to hide his mouth. "I understand it's a classic manoeuvre."

"No, Master Cain." Riff's deft fingers had thoroughly checked both the lacy garters and now he was pulling Cain's petticoat down into place. However much geisha dress might be in fashion, it seemed that English propriety had prevailed when it came to undergarments. There was probably something terribly Oedipal about it all; not that Cain himself could make any impartial judgment in that case. "We don't want him finding out you're not a woman."

Cain yawned, stretching like a drowsy cat. "Crispian's a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, I doubt he'd mind very much." He held out an idle hand to Riff, who helped him to his feet. As they reached the door ("take small steps, don't swing your arms and never lift your skirt above your ankles"), Riff finally asked,

"Do you actually think this will work, Master Cain?"

"Sshhh!" Cain snapped the fan open again and leant in; the thin silk and wood was the only thing separating their breath. "Of course it will." After a pause, he added, "And I shouldn't be Cain, I'm..." He trailed off, smudging his powder with a frown. "What's a good girl's name?"

"Merryweather," Riff suggested, his face bland. Cain grimaced at him.

"I prefer Christabel. _That lovely lady, Christabel, whom her father loves so well!_" His smile grew tainted with sweetness, like worms in honey. Riff placed a cloak round his shoulders.

"Who 'found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; and didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, to shield her and shelter her from the damp air'."

"That is true," Cain said, his voice softer than was usual, and more subdued. "Now, remember, you're just another servant."

"That may not prove a difficult task, Master Cain."

"Quiet, good Mellors! Let us go un-gently into that good night, and find our murderer."

But Cain was smiling; for once, not at all as if he intended to poison someone's wine.

**Author's Note:**

> Lines quoted are from Coleridge's epic poem "Christabel".


End file.
